


Angels We Have Heard

by Dardrea



Series: In the Bleak Mid-winter [2]
Category: The Last Herald-Mage Trilogy, Valdemar Series - Mercedes Lackey
Genre: (Unsuccessful) Suicide Attempt, AU, Canon Gay Relationship, Comfort, Everybody Lives, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Mostly Fluff, Music, Singing, Substance Abuse, What Happens After Everybody Lives When People Are Still Pretty Messed Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2019-02-18 09:16:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13097019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dardrea/pseuds/Dardrea
Summary: So they parted ways at the end ofIn the Bleak Mid-Winter(and if you haven't, you should read that before this, it continues from there) but there's no way Van and Stef aren't going to find each other again. They've both got a lot of stuff to deal with....I hate titles. Yay for Christmas getting songs stuck in my head!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Vanyel wasn’t a fortnight back at Haven when he heard the song.

He’d lost a stone in his recovery and it was chaffing him. He needed to get back up, back out, to the salle, to his duties, to his life. Lying in bed, withering away— _:Getting stronger, love,:_ she kept reminding him, as if she was one to talk—was making him crazy.

He’d been carried back from the northern border in a cart. Like an invalid. It was galling, no matter that everyone kept telling him how grateful he should be to be coming back at all. He wouldn’t say it, but he wasn’t, particularly.

His mother had wept copiously over his bedside, his father had grunted, impressed. Even, and Vanyel tried not to be shocked since they’d already come so far, but, _proud_.

Tran hovered like a nervous mother hen, almost as bad as his real mother, but at least he spared him the tears.

Jisa—now Jisa left him feeling guilty. She’d been crowned queen consort in his absence, her acknowledged parents dead while he’d been off facing down a lifetime of nightmares and trying to get himself killed at practically the same moment. He hadn’t been there for her through that, and could only be grateful she’d at least had Treven, now the king, the very man he’d bristled at her marrying. At least when he could subsume his own shame, the two of them could mourn those deaths together.

Because that was truly the worst part for him, coming back: the people who _weren’t_ there at his sickbed. Randy and Shavri. Kilchas and Lissandra, Jaysen, Mardic and Donni, hells, all the other Herald-Mages.

And Savil. Gods, Savil, who had always been there for him at Haven, since Withen had foisted his hopeless heir off on her, a lifetime ago. Even if he’d been able, he could hardly stand the thought of leaving his rooms for the empty halls where he knew they’d never meet again.

In his bed he could pretend the mother-of-his-heart was still out there, just on the other side of his door. She was on her way to check on him; at any moment there would be a knock.

But when there was, it was never her.

* * *

His nephew Medren was by far the most cheerful of his visitors. A bardic student at the collegium, he was never without his lute and made it clear his plan was to help his uncle pass a bit of his convalescence with songs, upbeat, happy, often bawdy songs.

Songs about Vanyel himself, when the scamp was feeling particularly cheeky, and gods knew there were plenty to choose from and a good number of them were completely awful. It had given his nephew the idea for a game: guess which terrible song was real and which he was making up on the spot.

“No, no, I swear that one was real, Uncle Van!” Medren chortled. “I heard it myself in my journeyman year, being sung in a tavern not far from Forst Reach, as a matter of fact.”

Van’s face hurt from laughing. It was nice, a different sort of pain. He rubbed at his cheeks, fighting for breath. “I don’t believe you. There’s no way—” Talk about bawdy! And if ever a song had been more off the mark than to feature him, ‘courting’ some doe-eyed maiden from the Lakes…

Medren’s laughter faded but his smile didn’t and he continued to strum absently on his lute, going softer, but still cheerful enough. “Games aside, Uncle, I did hear a new one about you today.”

Vanyel groaned. “Oh gods, don’t tell me, was I making my way through the royal court of Rethwellen, one fair maid at a time?”

Medren had visited with him every evening since he’d returned, and although he’d never have said it, and probably didn’t have to, the young Bard was his favorite nephew. He could tell that the boy had something on his mind, though he was playing coy.

“Not _quite_ ,” he grinned. “—But I will say I thought this one was surprisingly good. Would you like to hear it?” More coy yet.

He couldn’t deny his curiosity was piqued. What was Medren sitting on? But, playing along— “You tell me?” he said, archly, folding his hands on his stomach.

Medren smirked and shook back his hair. “Oh, I suspect you would. Here—”

The boy adjusted his fingering, testing it for an unfamiliar song, striking a few tentative notes and then slipping off…

_—To the north. To an icy guard post at the northernmost edge of Valdemar’s border, wrapped in unnatural winter, where a grim-faced, determined man in white came hunting the enemy of his kingdom. A beautiful man, a living legend, with silver eyes and silver in his hair._

Van shifted uncomfortably.

There was only one person who could have written it, there were details even he didn’t know, things about the bandits, things about Leareth.

And the bits about Vanyel himself were— _far_ too flattering. Even Yfandes…

_:Huh,:_ she mused, clearly surprised, and more than a little flattered.

He’d written himself out almost entirely, with just a passing mention of that betrayal early on, making it sound like Van had been saved from the bandits by the healer and the brigand boy. Like he’d infiltrated his enemy’s stronghold on his own and faced his fate on the mountain peak as alone as he’d always feared he would.

As if the Bard himself hadn’t been right there, lending his own magic, his own life-essence to the blow that had killed the dark mage and brought the pass down. As if _he_ wasn’t the reason it had been possible.

And every word, sung in his nephew’s Gifted voice felt as if it was coming from _him_. Every chord, as if it was the Bard sitting beside his bed, playing it for him, at least until the last sweet note died away.

Medren was watching him intently, but Vanyel was too stunned to offer much of a reaction. The last thing he would ever have expected was to find himself transported back north to that terrible quest, or to find the Bard that had left him there sitting with him in his very room, crooning a song about it into his ear.

Medren cocked his head, laying his lute across his lap, and leaning forward over it. “So, it’s all true then? At first I was upset that you’d have shared so much with someone else when I’ve been here for you every day. But—it was that Bard you told me about, wasn’t it? He wrote himself out for some reason, but _he_ wrote the song?”

Vanyel swallowed heavily and nodded, staring down at his hands, white-knuckled with his grip on the coverlet.

Medren grinned. “What was his name? Stefen, you said? He’s very good, Uncle. I look forward to meeting him.”

* * *

He tried to shake it off, and Medren seemed to think it was just embarrassment and was kind enough not to tease—too much—but a feeling had taken root in Vanyel when he’d heard the Bard’s song.

His tribute. His _goodbye_.

Dread. Vanyel felt dread, a bleak hopelessness, radiating from that bond that connected them.

_:’Fandes—:_ He started, as soon as Medren had taken himself off, gloating for having gotten one over on his uncle.

_:Yes,:_ she answered, simply that. And he knew she understood.

* * *

Valdir had never looked more the part of the scruffy, starving minstrel. He only hoped no one took it into their head he looked _too_ bad, like he was carrying the plague or something like it, and tried to run him off.

He’d taken his lumps as Valdir, sure enough, but he never turned back.

_:Even when you should.:_

She worried him though, more than anything.

_:Are you sure_ you _’ll be alright, love? I don’t like leaving you like this.:_ Like him, she’d been slow in recovering. Slower even, he thought. She still wouldn’t tell him what had happened when Leareth’s men found her, or exactly how she’d deceived them into thinking she was dead. There was a distance between them still that had never been there before, not since he’d accepted the responsibilities of his Whites and fully opened himself to her as her partner.

He didn’t want to push—she was always in his head, she would know his concern—but…he worried.

He felt her wordless affection, deep and constant. _:I’ll be fine, beloved. Don’t worry about me. Find the Bard.:_

_Keep him from doing whatever he has planned_. That part remained unspoken but he felt it in her thoughts.

_What_ do _you have planned?_ he wondered.

* * *

It was a pretty, prosperous town, at least by the front gates and the main thoroughfare that led from one gate to the other, funneling travelers and merchants through the good part of town, full of cheerful, smiling people.

Watchful people, who smiled a little less and stared a little harder at a scruffy fellow like Valdir, in his ragged clothes and his misshapen hat pulled low as though he had something to hide.

Herald Vanyel had often ridden through the town of Tithes, or Tides, depending on the thickness of the accent that was saying it, heading south from Haven, occasionally stopping for a rest in one of the public houses or taverns. Valdir on the other hand usually ranged farther afield than this, where there was less chance Vanyel would be known. But needs must.

He clutched his beat-up lute case closer to him and ducked away from the main road, down a side street, to the part of town the rest wasn’t so proud of. It was more Valdir’s sort of place, and he relaxed a bit to leave behind the sharp eyes of the merchants and city guard.

Not that the merchants here weren’t as canny or as sharp-eyed, just that to them, his coin, if he had any, was as good as anyone else’s and they cared less how he might have come across it. There were still guards here too, but they knew there was less to guard, if not less to guard from, so there were fewer and their patrols were more leisurely.

Valdir avoided them anyway.

He paused on a street corner and looked around. Too much to expect to catch sight of that tell-tale head of bright auburn curls. He sighed heavily and didn’t have to feign the defeated, weary curve of his shoulders.

This wasn’t the place anyway, not quite.

The street here was paved, even if the stones were uneven, and sometimes cracked or missing. The road he was on led to a bridge and he could see that the stone didn’t go much past that side of the river. Crossing it, a fancy-dressed man on a well-formed but ill-tempered horse nearly ran him into the rails, and barked at _him_ for being in the way.

He cowered and groveled, but the man ignored him, sneering and continuing past into the crowd. He was the one who didn’t belong on this side of the river and this side of town, but Valdir knew that when you had the sort of money that fancy man probably had, you were welcomed anywhere, whether you belonged or not.

Valdir sighed with relief as he looked around on the other side of the bridge. No one here cared about him at all, his thread-bare clothes and ragged boots, his scruffy face and dirty hands—he fit right in.

He checked his coin purse, wincing at how light it was. He’d been worse off, sure, it had been empty probably more often than not lately, but—he took a steadying breath and crossed the street to an old produce stand.

“Hale and well met, friend,” he said, wincing at how weak his voice was.

The merchant turned and shot him a surprised and then a dubious look, wiping his hands on his apron. “‘Hale.’ –Not from around here, are you? ‘Friend?’”

He pretended not to hear the mockery. “No. I’m from—I’m traveling from up north. I’m a minstrel.”

“That right?” The merchant was already bored and had gone back to restacking potatoes.

This wasn’t going well. He thought frantically. Hesitantly he reached into his coin purse and pulled out one of the two coppers there, holding it up. “Might I trouble you for an apple or two?”

The merchant looked at him again and took the coin, not bothering to hide it as he checked to make sure it was true. He smiled, a little, and pocketed it. “A copper gets you three of my best. Friend.” He gestured at the pile of bruised apples.

Valdir carefully picked out three that didn’t look too bad.

“Actually, I’m looking for someone. Fellow I met on the road? He said he was from around here. Good with a gittern, excellent voice…”

The merchant glanced at him again but didn’t look any more interested now that the copper was gone.

“…not as good as me, of course!” Valdir added hastily.

“Huh,” the merchant grunted, disinterested.

The man might have had more to say for Herald Vanyel and a fatter coin purse but that might have scared the Bard off. He was here somewhere, he could feel him.

He took a bite of one of the apples. Not bad. Only _just_ past ripe and still sweet for it, bruises aside. Gods knew he’d had worse. He gestured over his back. “Anyone have rights to that corner? Would I be stepping on any toes, setting my hat there?”

The merchant snorted. “ _This_ side of the river? Be our guest. Might have to tithe a bit to the street toughs if you actually get anything.” He looked him over critically and snorted again. “Would probably be worth it to you. Look like you could use the protection.”

It didn’t sound like anything Valdir hadn’t dealt with before. He went to the corner, a pawn shop behind him, the river to his right, set down his hat and pulled out his lute.

It was a poor instrument, past its prime and past what any amount of normal care could’ve made decent again, but it played as gamely as it was able and Valdir was fond of the tired old thing. It fit comfortably in his hands and for all its age and wear, it had a heart to it.

Feeling a kinship, he started singing.

Valdir’s repertoire was somewhat like his instrument, somewhat like him too, though he’d’ve been hurt by the comparison: old-fashioned, worse for wear. Slow, sweet, carrying the memories of a better, easier life, but with a certain practicality now for the world as it was. He knew where he stood, but he hadn’t always been there, and he hadn’t been born there.

There were some who fell for the melancholy mystery of it and he managed to scrounge up a few coppers from hard-hearted folk who didn’t have much to spare.

“—you’re not very good.”

He broke off, in surprise and some offense.

A street boy was standing in front of him, glaring in a way that didn’t seemed warranted. An extra pair of scrawny, dirty legs were almost hidden behind him, a smaller sibling too shy to step out in front of the stranger like his brother.

“Suppose you can do better?” he said.

The child scoffed, all wild hair and big eyes and suspicion. “Not me. But we got better here. Don’t need you.”

Valdir took his hands off the strings. “Do you?”

The boy looked him over, head to toes, a look of utter contempt on his young face that would have done a court dowager proud. He spat. “Aye. Better’n _you_. You should move on.”

Valdir set his lute down in his case but didn’t put it away. He pulled out the last of the apples and shined it. “Maybe I will. Tell me about this better minstrel you have.”

The street boy wasn’t that simple. He crossed his arms and cocked his head, catching wind. “Don’t have to tell you nothing.” He hadn’t moved but Valdir could feel him slipping away. He was losing his chance.

He crouched, gave the apple one last swipe against his sleeve and held it loosely in his hand. “Of course not. You don’t have to tell me anything. You’d be wiser not to. Everyone knows you don’t spill your all with strangers.” He tried not to let the irony color his voice but the boy narrowed his eyes. Probably beggars weren’t raised to avoid strangers. Anyway. “But if I were to…share my apple with your friend there, we’d all be friends, wouldn’t we? You could talk to me then?”

The boy’s mouth was still set in a mulish line, even as Valdir held out the apple. He’d give them all the coins he’d gathered too, if they’d tell him what he wanted to know, but he knew better than to be too generous upfront. If the boy let his brother take the apple at least they might stay and he could continue his pitch.

A small, pale face peeked out from around the boy’s back. Not brother, sister, he realized. Like her brother, she was all eyes and hair, but less suspicion, though not much. She looked at the apple first. It was the least bruised of the lot, mottled yellow and red with only one really bad brown spot. She licked her lips and he could see her hands tighten on her brother’s jerkin.

Gods, he wanted to just give her the apple, and the coins. Someone that young shouldn’t look that hungry.

She looked at him then, straight in the eye. It was disconcerting for her age, how clear and calculating her gaze was. But suddenly she cocked her head and gave him a sharp once-over like her brother had. She didn’t seem to come to same conclusion about him.

“Fretr—” she whined, tugging at her brother’s shirt.

“Have it if you want,” he grunted, not taking his eyes off.

“No, Fretr, that’s him! That’s the man from Stef’s song—”

“Shut up, Stenna!” Suddenly the canny young boy sounded so young—and looked like he was about to backhand his sister. She scampered away from him, just out of reach, which wasn’t far since her brother didn’t have much of a reach at his age.

Valdir flinched.

But the little girl didn’t back down. Planting her feet and glaring and pointing at Valdir, who cast a nervous glance around. But in places like this people minded their own business, even when grown men were talking to two small children on a street corner. It would be noticed, but no one was likely to interfere unless he did a lot more than wave an apple.

“Lookit him! Silver eyes and silver hair, like Stef’s been singin’ about. And he’s asking for him. It’s because he’s the man from the song!”

The boy scoffed and crossed his arms, meeting her glare for glare. “The man in the song’s a Herald, stupid. He ain’t no Herald.”

“How would you know? How many Heralds’ve _you_ seen?”

“’Cause if he’s a Herald he’s one of the king’s men, and he’s probably here to take Stef away.”

Valdir blinked, finding himself the focus of the boy’s ire again.

“He wouldn’t do that,” the girl said softly, taking a step closer and looking up at him in a way that made him profoundly uncomfortable. “The man in the song’s a hero. Stef said. He wouldn’t take him away.”

“Ah—”

The boy came closer too, bristling. “Well? What are you? Are you a Herald?”

He looked between them, debating. They knew the Bard—

Trusting his instincts, he turned to the girl and offered her the apple, looking at her earnestly and pressing one finger to his lips.

She took the apple and broke out into a beaming grin.

* * *

Stenna insisted on leading him by the hand. Her tiny hand in his reminded him so much of Jisa, who’d led such a different childhood, that it hurt. The Bard was living in the house behind theirs, she told him. He was nice. He paid their da every week in advance and when their da wasn’t around he shared with them, a coin sometimes, or food, and he’d let them sit and listen to him sing some evenings. He made his money singing, on the other side of the river, when he wasn’t too tired—

The children shared a glance. ‘Tired’ wasn’t quite the word, apparently.

Fretr never did let down his guard, and Van understood why, now, if Stef was a source of coin and food in a life where both of those things were uncertain.

“There!” Stenna said, bouncing on her bare feet, pointing to what was more of a shed than a house, though in fairness, the ‘house’ that was in front wasn’t really much better. “Can we come with you?”

It would have been a relief to have them there, he was a wreck of nerves, but there was still such darkness seeping across the mental link. Innocent might not have been the right word for the children—if the boy had been just a little more subtle he might have succeeded in picking his pocket when they crossed that street, not that he’d have found anything if he had—but he couldn’t take them, not knowing what he’d find.

“Better not,” he said, patting her hand with his free one. “Stefen and I need to talk.”

“You won’t take him!” Fretr said, a command, not a request. “He hasn’t done anything wrong.”

He shook his head. “I promise. I’m not here to take him, I don’t have the authority for it. You’re right: he’s done nothing wrong.”

The boy’s hard gaze didn’t waver.

Knowing a lost cause, Van went to one knee before the girl and playfully kissed the back of her hand. “I thank you, my lady.”

She giggled and grinned, looking every bit the child she was—but she made the coins he’d passed her, all he’d had, disappear without blinking, so smooth he didn’t think her brother had caught it.

He smiled his nervous farewell, and tried to still his churning stomach as he went to knock on the door of the little shack.

* * *

There was no answer, and no sound, and no visible light from inside.

He tried the door, surprised to find it opened easily—letting out a cloud of thick smoke that made him cough, his eyes watering. Dreamerie.

He peered through the darkness, the only light was the failing evening gloom he’d let in through the door. There were two windows in the place, but they were shuttered.

The Bard sat cross-legged on a pallet under one of the windows. Hunched forward, his hair fallen in front of his face. His head shifted but he seemed incapable of figuring out what was going on until he managed to rake some of that hair away with one hand, holding it back while he blinked owlishly up at the doorway. He didn’t look much better than Van, for all his youth. Too thin, patches of red, scraggly stubble on his jaw and the hollows of his cheeks. He was still beautiful though.

For a moment, he didn’t seem to recognize Vanyel.

Then his eyes widened in fear, and he made a brief, aborted motion to stand, before sinking back where he stood. His hands shook when he brought out a small flask, not like the ones Van had seen him with before. This was a small glass vial, the sort you’d get at an apothecary.

He uncorked it and licked his lips. “Fuck you,” he said, hoarse.

Without thinking Van reached out and used a little mental nudge to knock the vial from the Bard’s trembling hand. The youth didn’t have the coordination to catch it, and it only took a little more flexing of his Fetching to shatter the bottle before the Bard could save it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stefen is having a rough time--but hey, we get his perspective on the end of In the Bleak Mid-Winter.

Stefen hadn’t ever thought about what he’d do with his freedom because he’d long given up on the idea of it.

Early on he’d still thought there’d been a chance, and sure, he’d had plenty of silly plans back then. Plenty of dreams of how he’d get away. He’d learned.

This—he didn’t know what to do with this.

He’d thought when Dark found him in bed with the Herald he’d kill him for sure and he was ready for it. When the Herald seemed to go mad and then passed out he hadn’t understood. When Master Dark made him take the unconscious man with them he was sure the master would kill them both out on the frozen top of that mountain and he hadn’t minded, at least for his own sake.

When instead the Herald had woken up and started pulling away at Stefen’s head, taking something from him he hadn’t known he had to give, it was the strangest thing he’d ever felt, worse than when Dark had mucked around in there, and he’d panicked at first, but then he’d caught on, and he was okay with that too, even knowing he wasn’t meant to survive it.

Sure, he fought when he had the chance—and even if Dark’d knocked him arse over head for it, it had felt fucking _fantastic_ to stick the bastard—because fighting was what he did, what he’d always done, and he didn’t know any other way.

When the Herald had started unraveling the song in his head, stretching it out between them until it felt like something else entirely, and he’d thought he was dying, he _should_ have fought; but with the Herald holding him, tucking him in close, like he was something worth holding, it was better, and he hadn’t wanted to fight anymore. It had been peaceful, even if it hurt.

He hadn’t wanted to wake up again when the other Heralds came, pious and pure, all dressed in white, with all their big white horses. They didn’t trust him with their hero, wouldn’t let them be alone, wouldn’t let him sing for him. He’d stayed for a while but finally he’d struck out, after the army had come, more watchful eyes, more judgement.

More horses, that weren’t those things that only _looked_ like horses—and it was easy enough to nick one of those.

He knew the way back south, though he hadn’t been so far in years. After his first two tries at running away, Rendan had put the fear of the devil in him, and he hadn’t tried again. 

This time he just kept going, but he’d only gone a few days before he started wondering where he was heading. There was only one place he’d known and he hadn’t the first idea how to get back. But he figured it out.

* * *

And it was strange to walk those streets again, see the derelict buildings still standing, smell the sour, down-river air. Strange how a place could feel so different and still the same, for only a decade.

Berte was dead, buried in a narrow, pauper’s grave, on the mercy of the local temple. It was more than the old bitch had deserved and Stefen hadn’t gone to see, though he thought about it. Janne was gone, no one knew—or cared—where he’d gotten off to. Maybe he was dead, maybe not. But ten years later his ma was still working at the big house.

The old skinflint who’d rented Berte the hovel they’d lived in had died of fever, and his nephew had taken over and was still renting it out. No better ideas, Stefen had paid a few coppers he’d earned with his songs and moved back in.

Damned if it didn’t feel like he’d never left.

The faces were different, older or missing, but the ones that had replaced them were hauntingly the same in every way that made a difference: hard, hungry eyes in hard, hungry faces. It was the kids that bothered him the most. He hadn’t thought anything of it when he’d been growing up wild with the thieves and the prostitutes, his stupid schemes, his dreams of getting out, but now he looked around—and _fuck him_ , it just wasn’t fair.

* * *

What he stupidly hadn’t counted on at all was the trouble he’d have feeding his demon down here. Oh, there was dreamerie, plenty to be had, but it was all the weaker stuff for burning, the liquid was passing rare this far south it seemed, and the bit he’d managed to track down had only been available well on the other side of the river and for a price he could never have swung.

Seemed Master Dark had been doing him a kind one, all that time, and wasn’t that something?

He took what he could get, always had, but it was weak stuff, too often cut to hell with other herbs so it hardly even took an edge off.

When he was sober he hung out with the little ones, sharing what he had, not with them really, though they were the beneficiaries, but with his ghosts: Damen, Janne, a nameless girl just on the other side of womanhood. They appreciated his songs more than the people who tossed coin for them, so he supposed there was some sort of balance in him sharing some of that coin with them.

He composed some songs, always had from time to time, couldn’t really help himself. Most of it was maudlin shite, but he had a few raunchy ballads that would get the lads and their ladies moving, and those played okay.

Then he did _that_ one—it had been brewing up in his head since he’d taken off south on that stolen army pony, maybe even since he’d seen the Herald, staggering in from the snow at the guard post. Hells, maybe it had been his head since he’d been born, it felt like, the way it had practically poured out of him when he’d given up and let it.

That had been his real money maker. Everyone liked to hear about heroes, and it was a new story no one knew yet. He sailed on that song for a good while. It got around, eventually, weird as it was to hear someone else sing it down the road, their own little flourishes, their own—unimpressive—voice.

He wasn’t bothered, no one could own a song, no more than you could own breath or thought.

But he did feel a little different about that song. It was his song for the Herald, the hero. The stupid fool who’d made him face down his master, and then had killed him, letting Stefen be a part of it. He’d set Stefen free, thought maybe not in the way Stefen would have preferred.

He thought about him, too much. Wondered how he was recovering, wondering where he was—back at the castle by now, had to be, that’s where Heralds lived, wasn’t it? Especially the important ones, like Herald-hero Vanyel Ashkeveron.

He looked for him, without meaning to, always an eye on the crowd for that black hair shot with silver, those eyes, that snooty white mare. Never saw him, of course. What, was he gonna leave his castle and go looking for Stefen like some fairy-story prince? Nah, Stefen didn’t live in that world, even in his dreams.

* * *

He drifted, listless. Sick as he knew it was, he wanted to follow old Berte down her smoke-scented road out of this place. He stayed, and he sang and then he’d shoo the young ones away and try to lose himself in the same shack where she’d died.

Sometimes, when the place was full of smoke—it was probably baked into the wood by now, he shouldn’t even need to burn more of it—he’d swear he could hear her breathing, shuffling in the corner. Once he thought he felt her old, thin arms around him like when she was feeling soft and they used to curl up, bellies full from the coin he pulled in with his songs.

Another ghost.

Weeks past, and months. It didn’t get better. It didn’t particularly get worse, but it was bad enough as it was.

The kids—all the damned kids. It didn’t get better for them, either. For them it _was_ going to get worse. Every year older took ‘em closer to the big houses, or to a prison cell, or a noose, or to a narrow grave on the temple’s coin. There wasn’t a road out of this place that led anywhere good, and didn’t _he_ know that. He hurt for the hopelessness of it all. No Master Dark here, no Rendan, but it wouldn’t be much better for them in the end.

And gods, it hurt.

* * *

He didn’t get up with the plan, crawling off his pallet with a crust in his eyes and a foul taste in his mouth that he tried to wash away with stale beer because it was what he had on hand. Something had landed in it overnight and drowned, a moth or some’at. He smacked his mouth and spat it out but kept drinking.

It was midday when he poked his head out on the street. It was as good an hour as any to head out. Most of the better corners were taken on the other side of the river but Stefen wasn’t choosy and he wasn’t worried about making much.

He was just tired.

He sang for a while, tried to sing it out, even though sad songs didn’t often pay as good as happy ones. Sometimes they did all right though; like lancing a wound, it was a service.

And then, well.

He couldn’t have gotten it at a real apothecary, they’d’ve asked questions, probably have figured he was up to no good, planning to off someone for fun or profit or a nice bit of both.

The boys who sold him his dreamerie didn’t care what other poisons he bought with it or what his plan for any of it was, long as he paid upfront and knew better than to name names.

He felt it should have weighed more, the little glass vial. That the liquid inside should have looked more…like… _something_. Coulda been water, clear and viscous. When he broke the seal and gave it a sniff it didn’t smell like water though. Didn’t smell like death either, even though it was supposed to be.

He went back to his shack early. It was a nice walk. The weather wasn’t bad this time of year. He closed himself away from all of it then and sat down on his pallet with his haul.

The dreamerie first, for courage. When smoke was the best he could get it wasn’t good for much of that though, but he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, holding the glass vial so tight he was afraid it’d shatter. If he broke it in his hand could it poison him through the wounds? He didn’t think that was how it worked, but what did he know?

Neither did he know how long he sat there, breathing in the smoke, clutching the vial of argonel, feeling the tug of something far away. What right did he have to still be here anyway? Damen shoulda been. He’d deserved to get out more than Stefen had. He pressed the heel of his hand into his forehead.

Gods, he didn’t deserve—

He’d been sitting in the dark but suddenly there was light. There shouldn’t have been light. He turned his head a little. No one was supposed to open his door uninvited, no one was supposed to see—he didn’t want to do that to any of the young ones, they should have known better than to just barge in—

He blinked against the light, trying to make sense of it, finally realizing his hair was a big part of his problem and clumsily raking it back from his face, peering at the door like he was peering down a long, dark, tunnel.

His breath caught; his heart stuttered. Master Dark?

He tried to stand but his legs had gone weak and he ended up back on his arse.

No. He wouldn’t go back to him, not for anything, no way.

“Fuck you,” he managed to sneer, though his mouth was dry and he was breathless with the panic. He reached to uncork the bottle just as Dark reached out towards him, something strange about the way he was moving, and the bottle tumbled from his hand.

He tried to catch it but his fingers were like sausages, thick and useless, and it hit the ground—and shattered.

_No. No no no!_

He reached for the shards of the bottle—maybe it _would_ be enough to cut himself—but hands were on his, pulling them up, away from the mess.

He whimpered, shaking. No. He wouldn’t go back to his master, he wouldn’t do it.

It took him too long to understand what the other man was saying.

“Shhh—please. Please don’t. Shhh, it’s okay. I promise it’ll be okay. Please, please stop. Please—”

He jerked his head and caught the other man under the chin with the top of his head, but he hadn’t meant to and he wasn’t ready for the stars that burst across his own vision.

“Hu—Herald?”

A soggy laugh from above him. When he stopped trying to get to what was left of the broken vial the hands holding his slid around to grasp them properly. Gently. They squeezed, as if assuring him they were real.

“Yes. Will you stop—please? Let me clean up? Let me close the door?”

He glanced back at the open door, where the light was still coming in. It meant any of the kids, curious little things, could look in and see…

He tried to get to his feet again, to go close it, but the Herald still had his hands and kept him where he was. He felt so weak, it wouldn’t have taken much; he wasn’t sure he could have gotten to his feet this time either.

“Shhh,” the other man said again. “I’ll get it. Don’t worry about it. Just—be still, understand?”

The Herald couldn’t be there. He wouldn’t have come for Stefen, gods, he knew better than that. This was a dream. That, or he’d already taken the argonel and just forgotten. He nodded a little, and watched, wonderingly, as the Herald stood and carefully backed away, braced to dash back to him if Stefen moved wrong.

Didn’t look like he’d’ve been able to do much to stop it though; he looked awful.

He was skinny and pale, dark bruises under his eyes, and his black and silver beard didn’t look like it grew in much better than Stefen’s, for the years he had on him. And what the hells was with that stupid hat?

He looked wonderful.

Stefen swallowed. He didn’t like it when the door closed and left them in near darkness, just that knife’s edge of light bleeding in around the door. _Not Dark, not Dark—_

“It’s okay!” the Herald promised, holding out one hand, cupped, where a white light kindled, brighter than a torch, holding out the other hand as thought to stop him from panicking.

He watched the magic though, magelight, like his master called sometimes. The Herald was kind, the Herald was a hero—Stefen had watched him bring down a mountain and stop an army on his own. He couldn’t have gotten to his feet, but he scooted away a little, until he felt the wall at his back and there was no place left to scoot.

The Herald looked so sad as he let his empty hand drop. Stefen wanted to crawl to his feet and try to comfort him, the way he used to offer himself to—

_Not Dark! Not Dark!_

“Easy. Please, I’m not here to hurt you.” Never taking his eyes off Stefen the Herald sidled to the crate in the corner next to the little stove. With a slow, careful gesture—or maybe everything just felt slow to Stef right now, dreamerie did that—the Herald lit the candle that was melted onto the center of the crate.

His gaze lifted from Stefen long enough to flick around the one-room shack. It didn’t take long, there wasn’t much to see: the crate and candle, the little stove, the pallet and blanket. His gittern was in its case in one corner, the bowl and dreamerie were on the floor, next to the broken bottle of argonel.

He’d have bought some bread and something to drink and brought them back to the shack for tonight, but he’d already bought the argonel and hadn’t seen much point.

“Why’re you dressed like that?” he asked. Heralds wore white, everyone knew that. Except when they were wearing the castoffs of dead brigands and being chased through winter wastes.

The Herald let his other hand drop as well and the magelight flickered out, leaving them only in the light of that single candle. “I was afraid you’d run, if you thought I was looking for you.”

“Run from you? Nah, only bad people run from you, yeah?” And _Stefen_ sure wasn’t one of those, no sir. He snorted and shifted himself, so he was leaning against the wall instead of trying to wedge himself out through it. “How far could I get from you, anyway? You know I can feel you, right here.” He tapped the side of his head. “Fancy you feel even more, being what you are—how you found me here. Bring me s’more apologies?”

He was feeling more himself. The open door had let out enough of the smoke, and maybe the Herald had given it an extra push—like he’d done with the vial of argonel. Stefen looked down at what was left of it, pondering.

“Not if you don’t want them.”

He smiled a little, in spite of himself. That was hardly a ‘no.’

His gaze skimmed over the room but there wasn’t any more for him to see than there’d been for the Herald. He vaguely waved his hand. “I’d offer you some’at, but as you can see, you caught me unprepared.” His eyes fell on his bowl and his lips twisted. “Don’t think you’d care for what I have.” He looked up, expecting judgment.

The Herald had cocked his head. “I did have apples,” he said, as though that made any sense.

“…But?”

“But I gave the last one to the little girl who led me here.”

Stefen snorted. “Sold out for an apple, was I?”

The Herald’s expression changed and Stefen didn’t know what it meant. “No. Sold for a song.”

It took him a second, and that intense, curious gaze, before he understood, and he wanted to shrivel up where he sat. The damned song. He should have known. He looked away, pursed his lips. Gods.

“Reached your place, did it?” That’s why he was here now.

“My nephew sang it for me. Apparently, it’s all over the castle. All over Haven.”

Stefen flinched. Well shite.

“Do you mind if I—?” Stefen risked a glance and the Herald made a brushing gesture towards the broken argonel vial.

He shrugged and looked away again, so he didn’t see what the Herald did to it, but he definitely noticed when the Herald was done and lowered himself to sit on the pallet at his side, back against the wall. His whole body went tense.

“I do that sometimes, make up songs,” he confessed in a rush. “It doesn’t mean anything, it’s just how I…” he trailed off, breathless. Cleared his throat. “Did your nephew sing it…well? Does he have a good voice?”

Didn’t matter, it was a stupid question and a stupid song. _Gods, Stefen, you fucking idiot._

The Herald coughed. “He’s got a good voice. He’s a journeyman Bard at the collegium. His name’s Medren.”

“Medren,” he repeated. He didn’t know why it felt like it should mean something to him that the Herald had told him his nephew’s name. A ‘journeyman Bard’ from the fancy school at the capitol, nephew of the greatest hero in the land, cherished son of a noble family. Stefen wanted to hate him, but his name on the Herald’s lips… and he’d sung Stefen’s song for his uncle.

“It’s beautiful. Your song. You’re far too kind to me in it—”

Stefen flinched again and looked at him, his features softened in the candlelight, hard angles blurred. It was only the dreamerie that had made him think it was Dark, he hardly put him in mind at all, so close.

“You’re a hero,” he said softly, meaning it, just as he’d meant every word of the stupid song. The sound the Herald made in response confused him, and he watched him let his head fall back against the wall, staring up at the bare ceiling. His mouth twisted and he turned a surprisingly human, wry look on Stefen—who inhaled sharply as his mouth went suddenly dry.

“No more than you are.”

Caught by those eyes, that little smile, that beautiful if somewhat gaunt face, it took Stefen a second to catch what he’d said.

It broke the spell and he looked away in annoyance when he did. Flattery. Fuck that. He could at least have picked a likelier lie.

The Herald nudged his shoulder with his own, like they were friends or something.

“You are. I wouldn’t have lived through that if it hadn’t been for you. I wouldn’t have been able to take Leareth down at all, without you.”

He snorted, absently rubbing his arms, feeling a bit of that cold just at thinking back on it. The Herald nudged him again and he turned a glare on him, then turned away, flustered still at having the other man so close.

“I won’t do it again, right? It was stupid. A moment of brave stupidity.” He forced a laugh. “M’too much of a coward, most of the time.”

“I don’t think—” the Herald began stiltedly, and Stefen could smell another lie coming. He wished he could trust his legs to carry him, and leave the Herald to his lies. Fucking do-gooder. He could feel him deciding to change his track, through that troubling mental link in his head. Even Master Dark hadn’t been so insidiously ever-present. “You think about that boy a lot.”

That was not a better track.

“He wouldn’t want you to—”

“Doesn’t matter what Damen’d want, he’s dead,” he said flatly. Like the Herald would have any idea anyway.

It was the Herald’s turn to flinch, Stefen could feel it where their shoulders were pressed together. 

“I’m—”

“Don’t,” he warned. He glanced at him, intending to come off stern, but the Herald’s expression of helplessness put him off.

The man groaned, and wiped his hands over his face. “Gods, I’m trying not to,” he complained, and if Stefen had been a more generous sort he’d have pitied him. Until— “Tell me about him?”

He was pretty sure his expression said how stupid he thought that was, but the man didn’t look away this time, gaze earnest and caring.

He could only roll his eyes. “Pass.”

“I’ll tell you about someone who was close to me.”

An older woman, Stef felt vaguely, from that damned mind-link, but you didn’t put a knife in a street kid’s hand and offer your soft parts and expect not to get stuck. “Then tell me about _him_ , the one before me. Your first…whatever we are.”

For a second the Herald’s face went blank, absolutely blank. Stefen swallowed against a flash of shame, but why should he feel bad? He shouldn’t have started something he couldn’t finish, or asked more than he’d give. There was even a certain dark satisfaction in having pushed the man so far he’d got a real reaction, other than pity or apologies.

He looked down, tapping a melody out on his knee, wondering how long the Herald was planning on staying.

“All right.” He sounded distant, rote, a little like one of Master Dark’s mindless servants and Stefen turned back to him in surprise.

_You don’t have to,_ a part of him wanted to say, but a bigger part of him felt he did.

The Herald wasn’t looking at him anymore. His hands clasped in his lap, he stared over at the door and Stefen might’ve thought he was thinking about how long he was going to stay too, except he didn’t think the Herald saw the door at all.

“His name was Tylendel,” he said softly.

Stefen tried the name, as he had the nephew’s, except just mouthing it now, to feel it out. There was music in it, he decided. “He was a noble, like you?” he asked, when the Herald didn’t continue.

“Yes.”

‘Course he was; stupid question. “Handsome, brave, kind, and clever?” he asked, only sneering a little.

The Herald smiled, a faraway, tender expression, even in profile.

“Yes.”

Stefen rolled his eyes but there was a stone in the bottom of his stomach and he felt a lot less self-righteous about ‘not starting what he couldn’t finish.’

“He—”

“You don’t have to,” he said, knowing in his cowardly heart that wasn’t what he meant.

The Herald kept staring off into space and Stefen wished more than ever he knew how to block the connection between them. He didn’t need the feelings that were rolling over from the other side.

He realized he’d been tapping out the measures to _that_ song on his knee and switched to another.

“Damen wasn’t. None of those things. He was just a kid.”

He felt the Herald refocus. Fucking saint, he would.

He snorted, angry again. “Or more like a rabbit. Scared of everything, jumping out of his skin at shadows. Anytime any one came near him, even me, he’d either run or freeze up. He never learned how to fight back against anything.”

“How old was he?”

“Twelve.” He said it strong, hard, a simple fact, but his eyes burned and he was glad the light was so dim. 

He felt the Herald shift, knew he was reaching for his hand—and tucked them both under his thighs against the pallet.

“Had you known him long?” he asked after a moment.

Another stupid question and a nice reminder they weren’t only his. “Too long. Longer than I should have.” The boy should never have been close enough see that life, let alone live it with him. And the time he’d had there alone, when Stefen had been with Dark—

He sighed heavily and raked the hair back from his face, adjusting his position, pulling away from how he’d been pressed to the Herald’s side. That had been subtle and cleverly done. He’d think the man had designs if he wasn’t who he was. “This is stupid. There’s no point talking about it, it doesn’t make him less dead.”

“No.”

“I already told you, I won’t try that again. It was stupid,” he repeated. “I just let myself get out of hand. I probably wouldn’t have gone through with it.”

He could feel the doubt and it frustrated him. He _wasn’t_ weak and he didn’t need a caretaker. He felt the Herald’s gaze on him, and he refused to meet it.

“Did you buy a candle for him?”

“Did I what?” But he knew what he meant: one of those skinny white candles from the temples, used to offer prayers for the dead on Sovvan and nights like it, when it was said they were close. It didn’t have to be festival time, the temples sold them year-round. “No. Why would I do that?”

“To wish him well. To say farewell.”

“How many have you burned for your Tylendel?”

The Herald answered without hesitating, “More than I can count.”

Well.

“I’m not into that.”

The Herald laughed. “It’s just a candle. C’mon,” he said, suddenly standing, offering his hand.

He must have still been addled from the dreamerie, because without thinking he took it, and the Herald helped him up so he was standing too, watching the other man put that ridiculous, wide-brimmed hat back on.

* * *

That feeling—that he was addled, high—didn’t go away. Walking with the Herald through his place, through his dirty world and dirty life, and the Herald dressed and moving like he belonged there, he couldn’t seem to get his head around it.

If it made the Herald feel better to make him burn a candle, and that’s what it took to give up on playing nursemaid and send him on his way, fine, he’d burn a fucking candle.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Van takes Stefen on a short excursion.

They had to cross the river to reach the temple, which meant crossing over the rickety bridge again. Vanyel fought the instinct to keep checking over his shoulder to make sure the Bard was following him and hadn’t disappeared into the darkness or a cloud of his poisonous smoke. He suspected it would be what drove the Bard to bolt, if he felt Van was hunting him.

He didn’t know for certain what ghost he’d seen when Van had walked into that fog of dreamerie—though he could guess, as if this wasn’t strange and complicated enough—but from the instant he’d caught sight of him the Bard had been tense as a wild thing lured from its den. Shy, untrusting, prickly.

It had stung when the Bard had pulled away from his touch, even though that sort of selfish concern should have been the last thing on his mind.

He could still feel the radiating darkness from the other side of their bond and it worried him so much because it was so familiar. And that vial he’d had, with its familiar smell—Vanyel’s blood still ran cold.

_:Oh, Van.:_ He could feel the sorrow in her thoughts. Bad memories of dark days, not that he’d had the wit or opportunity to go hunting down argonel or anything else as potent. The river had almost worked. Then a blade when they hadn’t let the river take him.

The other side of _this_ river, they were walking on brick and cobblestone again and even for so small a distance the air smelled fresher.

“You know your way around,” the Bard commented from behind him, with a blandness that spoke more of his suspicion than he might have meant it to.

Van flinched, because having found the Bard the implication had finally struck him. He’d been to Tithes, passing through often, back and forth to the Karse border and other places. He’d likely been through when the Bard had still been there, as a boy. For all he knew he’d been there the day he’d been taken, passing the men who’d taken him, wrapped up in the battle to the south, never knowing what was bleeding away from Valdemar to the north, never knowing what was happening to a child who should have had his protection.

Children. There was no way Stefen was the only one.

He knew the Bard was waiting for an answer, but he suspected the young man just felt hunted again, thinking that Van had been watching him, or had had someone else doing it.

“I’ve passed through this city before,” he said, trying not to let his own guilt weigh in his words, afraid the Bard would mistake it.

“Here?” he sounded surprised.

“On the way to Karse.”

“Ah. Didn’t know we were on the way,” he said musingly. “Not back then. The main road doesn’t pass through south of the river. Didn’t give much thought to what was going on north of it.”

There was no recrimination in his voice or in the emotions leaking from their bond.

* * *

The temple door was closed but not barred against the cool night air and they went in, after only a moment’s hesitation from the Bard.

He shrugged when Van glanced at him. “Never been on good terms with the temples,” he said.

Van just smiled and held the door for him. The Bard rolled his eyes and went in first but stopped behind the pews, letting Van lead again.

It was empty, but lit by a few dim oil lights and a row of white candles near the altar. It smelled of incense, sweet undercut by an ashy bitterness, and there was a precious stained-glass window, probably the gift of a wealthy patron. It was all darkness beyond it now, just a mosaic of black and deep gray and blue that sparkled in the lamplight and showed their grim reflections as they approached the front of the church.

Van absently offered his respect to the statues of the Lord and Lady that flanked the altar and looked around. There would usually be a basket—

“May I help you?” It could have seemed abrupt, but the woman, the young woman, sounded sincere in her welcome. She wore the robes of a priestess, and a sweet smile, as she walked out from a room to their right. Her gaze flicked past Van to the Bard and widened in surprise, her smile only deepening. “Oh! I know you. You sing at the corner by the vintner and you run around with all the little ones across the river.”

The Bard shifted uncomfortably, looking like he was about to bolt. Van stepped between them.

“We need candles—” He remembered himself and whipped his hat off, worrying it in his hands and hunching a little, embarrassed to be bothering someone like her in a place like this. “Please, mother.”

She turned that smile on him and he couldn’t deny it was dazzling, making him feel genuinely shamed for the pretense here. _Valdir_ had never been on good terms with temples either.

“Of course. This way.” She gestured back towards the room she’d just stepped out of. Van could see a rough table and bench and a few baskets, some with dried and drying flowers, some with candles. “We have as many as you need.”

He demurred for a moment before he took the invitation and practically scampered to the nearest candle basket, taking out three.

“I don’t recognize you, my son.” Spoken by a woman who didn’t look much older than the Bard—or Jisa. “I’m Mother Caenis. Are you new to our city?”

He flashed her a small, shy smile and bowed his head. “Yes, mother. Just arrived.”

She turned her considering gaze back on the Bard. Seeming poised to say something, she hesitated, and when she spoke he could tell it wasn’t what she’d wanted to say. “Well, you’re lucky to have fallen into such good company. You could do much worse here. Be careful.”

He looked down, abashed—wondering what she’d meant.

“The candles are a penny each. A contribution to the church.”

He nodded quickly and reached for his money pouch. And froze, because he’d given all he’d had to that girl.

The Bard sighed heavily. “Not a copper to your name, yeah? And this all _your_ idea.” Van flinched.

He thought the priestess did too. She touched his wrist. “It’s only a donation. We can always spare a few.”

He’d see a purse of gold delivered to her, or damn his soul for it, he swore, only feeling worse. 

In the back of his head, Yfandes’ amusement seeped through.

“We don’t need the charity of the temple,” the Bard said shortly, snagging two more candles and holding out seven coppers. Van knew it wasn’t because he’d miscounted.

The priestess looked at him and bit her lip, not reaching for the money. “Actually—I’ve been wanting to talk to you. There’s a service you could render that would be dearer to the temple than a few coppers—”

The Bard dropped the candles and the money vanished in a clenched fist.

“Too ‘dear’ for me then.”

But now that she’d gone that far she seemed determined to finish. “Those children, the little ones who follow you, the ones you’ve been feeding and keeping out of trouble—”

She was talking to the empty air; the Bard had already turned on his heel and stalked out.

She took a few steps after him, reaching out towards the boy’s vanishing back before her hand fell and she turned to Van, wringing them. “Please. Please, do take the candles. I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have. I just—” She looked at him earnestly, radiating distress. “Those children. I see what he does for them. What no one else does. I’ve proposed a school like the larger temples have—that my sisters and I should run one, I mean. We’d feed them, at least they’d get one meal a day as long as they came, maybe even two if we can manage it, and they’d learn to read and write, sums…”

“And the holy writ?”

He hadn’t meant anything by it but she turned suddenly fierce, though she was as ill-suited for ferocity as a kitten would have been.

“Do you think that would be wrong? To try to teach them about hope and love and charity when everything around them is ugly and cutthroat and darkness?”

He raised his hands, still holding his candles. “I’m not the one you have to convince,” he said quietly, and watched her deflate.

“No. No—and I’ve had no luck convincing the children themselves. Or their parents. I thought, the way they follow that young man… if he said something to some of them…” She picked up the two candles he’d dropped and handed them to Vanyel. “I don’t suppose—if you talked to him?” She sounded so hopeful he hated to dash it, but he couldn’t help scoffing at the very idea.

“Your pardon, mother. I have no sway with that one.”

She nodded as though she’d expected nothing more, then forced a smile. It was somewhat pained but still, there was something in it. “Anyway. Please take the candles, with the blessing of the church. And—extend my apologies that I…” She winced. “That I tried to make such a solemn rite into a moment for bargaining. It was just the first time I’ve been able to get close to him.”

He only nodded, understanding that better than he intended to let on.

* * *

He knew, despite the haste with which the boy had left the temple, that he hadn’t gone far, and the Bard was lucky for that, since if he hadn’t known already who it was who reached out of a darkened alley between two buildings and grabbed him, it could have gone very very badly for the younger man.

It might have been some awareness of that that had the Bard releasing him and stepping away as soon as Vanyel faced him, or it might just have been his general skittishness. Either way he didn’t acknowledge it, just nodded his head towards the candles. “I told you we didn’t need their charity.”

“She’ll be paid for them, in time. You could say I bought them on credit.”

The Bard snorted. “And you’ll pay with interest too, I wager? Good scam for her.” He fell in beside him and they headed back across the river, side by side now even if neither quite closed the distance between them. There weren’t too many people out in this part of town, at this time of night, mostly just guards on their rounds. They were eyed with suspicion but no one stopped them.

“It’s hardly a scam when she doesn’t know she’ll be paid back,” he pointed out.

“That kind always knows. They have a sense for it.”

“What ‘kind?’” Van asked, glancing at him.

He wrinkled his nose. “Those pious ones. All clasped hands and long-winded sermons about how its better to give than to receive and how the best ones to give to are themselves.”

He blinked. Granted, he hadn’t been scrutinizing her, but he hadn’t gotten that impression from the priestess at all. Just to check himself—

_:’Fandes?:_

A mental shrug. _:Seemed fine to me? Your Bard’s a bit—:_

_:I know.:_

“She just wants to help the children. I think,” he said slowly, giving the Bard a sideways glance. If he wanted to drop it Van would, rather than chase him off the way the priestess had. He didn’t doubt that if the Bard put it out that he didn’t want to be found the children wouldn’t give Van a second chance, ‘man from the song’ or not.

“Help? Sure. I know what help that lot is.” His mouth twisted bitterly.

“She said she wants to start a school. Teach the little ones from your side of the river to read and write and do sums. Give them a meal with the lessons.”

The Bard harrumphed and picked up his pace and Van sped up a bit and took the cue to stop talking.


	4. Chapter 4

Stefen opened the door and let the Herald go first into the shack.

This was already taking too long. The man needed to light his damned candles and _go_.

He was tired and itchy and feeling like an idiot for being caught like he’d been, doing something so stupid. The visit to the temple and that damned pushy priestess hadn’t helped his state of mind. Or knowing Berte had been there, on the other side of the wall, in the darkness. In the ground. It had taken her death to get her moved permanently across the river.

The night was still young enough, though. There was still time for more dreamerie and bed if the Herald would take himself off. He shut the door behind them and swiped at his hair.

“So how do we do this?” he asked impatiently.

For a moment the Herald looked at him, something between surprise and pity in his eyes and it made Stefen want to spit.

“The candles?” He waved. “Just…light them?”

“We need a place—”

“Only got the one,” Stefen said, already dragging the crate from the corner of the room to the center. The top of it was caked with old wax and his regular candle was already affixed to the center of the box. He waved at it.

The Herald looked uncertainly from him to the crate.

“It’s what I’ve got,” he said again, rubbing his arms. Cold here wasn’t like cold up north, but it was cold enough.

With a little effort the Herald got down to a cross-legged position in front of the crate. And how healed was he really? Stefen wondered again. Past waifish to sickly. Better for him too, to get back to his posh castle and recovering. Who’d had the bright idea to let him out in the first place, didn’t they have enough sense to take care of their last Herald-Mage better than this?

He took the place beside him, cross-legged too.

This sort of candle, glowingly white, skinny like they were, weren’t meant to be just melted to whatever was handy, they belonged in some fancy candelabra, like Stefen sure didn’t have access to, but the Herald used some of the yellow wax from the old candles to fix them there just the same.

Then he glanced at Stefen, so careful, nervous, wanting something Stefen didn’t understand and didn’t think he wanted to give anyway. “Now we just…light them. And think about the person we’re lighting them for.”

Maybe that was why he’d gotten so mad at the priestess, because she looked at him the way Herald did. Expectant. Wanting. He’d had his run ins with the temples, not in a long time granted, Dark and the brigands of the northern woods had hardly been devotees, but he remembered the uppity nuns from his childhood. More, he remembered the brothers and sisters of more than one temple they’d passed on the way north, when he’d made that first journey. Gods and prayers were for rich men, pockets flush with gold, however they’d gotten it—like the slavers and like the Herald, when he wasn’t traveling light and playing at being gutter trash.

He nodded his chin. “You start.” He wasn’t trying to be belligerent, he was just past done with the company.

The Herald bobbed his head in a subtle bow and took a twig. Lighting it from the regular candle he lit the first of the white ones and paused.

His face was grave, his gaze fixed on the little flicker of flame, its light shimmering in damp reflection on his eyes. “For Tylendel,” he said softly.

Stefen’s mouth tightened.

He held out the smoldering twig and took a deep breath. “And for Savil.” He said it as softly, but his breath caught a little as the second candle was lit. Stefen felt that flash of shame again, that when the Herald had wanted to talk earlier he’d turned it into a pissing match, and it was worse when the Herald’s eyes fell shut and his lips moved subtly, briefly, in actual prayer or…what, he couldn’t know. He’d never been that close to anyone. He didn’t understand the grief he felt from that place in his head that wasn’t quite his anymore.

The Herald hadn’t had the chance to do this for her, yet, he realized, shifting away a little from the intimacy. It wasn’t for him.

But then the Herald _was_ looking at him again, holding out a fresh twig. He might have been able to rebuff him before—he still thought this was stupid—but there was something needy in the other man, not for Stefen himself, but just for someone to share this and for some reason he found he couldn’t deny that. He didn’t think this man, this Herald-hero of Valdemar, was the sort to reach out often. Not like this.

He took the twig and lit it from the old candle and lit the third of the white ones. “For Damen,” he said quickly, only a little guilty that the boy deserved more than this. He deserved a lifetime, a good one, a happy, healthy, long one, lived without fear and without the pain of his last hours. A candle couldn’t give him all that. He coughed to hide his sniff, and turned his head as if he was covering his mouth with his elbow to hide a swipe at his wet eyes.

His throat was too tight to move on and he stared at that candle for a moment, waiting for any hint of the peace this was supposed to bring. It was only a candle. Even the three didn’t do much to alleviate the darkness around them.

 He risked a glance at the Herald, who met his gaze as if he’d been waiting for it and smiled a little, nodding.

Stupid. Fucking idiotic, this was.

He sighed, annoyed, and lit the next candle. The last two had been a bad idea. If he’d just left it to the Herald he’d already be done. “For Berte,” he said, defiantly. If there was anyone who did deserve her end—who’d deserved worse!—it was old Berte, the bitch. He sure as fuck didn’t miss her like the woman the Herald had lit his candle for. If he closed his eyes he could still feel her behind him in the shack, hear the rustle of her blanket, the wheezing of her breath, smell the dreamerie—

_That_ … that much wasn’t her, anymore.

He opened his eyes, glaring at the light. Last one.

He lit it faster even than the others, and shook the twig out when it was done. “For Warin,” he said. He felt the Herald flinch beside him.

Well he should, he’d killed the man himself. There’d been worse folk licking at Dark’s heels, lots of them. Warin hadn’t been so bad and he probably wouldn’t have been picked out to go against the Herald if his master hadn’t known that Stefen occasionally crawled into the young captain’s bed when he’d felt an itch.

He clenched his fists on his thighs. It was a little brighter in his shack, but that was it. Wasn’t ever going to be otherwise.

They sat in quiet for a while. Stefen’s thoughts were no less dark for the light, but he hoped at least the Herald was getting whatever he’d wanted from it. He’d shut his eyes again, a relative blank in the back of Stefen’s head.

Stefen scooted himself back so he could lean against the wall, tired, leaving the candles to the Herald. He reached for his gittern and pulled it from its case, plucking out a lazy melody. At least in the music there was a sort of peace. A distance and a closeness at once.

After a while the Herald sighed and moved to join him, the two sitting on his pallet as they had earlier.

“I’m sorry. I had hoped…”

But Stefen was too tired even to fuss at yet another pointless apology. “Shhh,” –his turn to say, still playing.

It startled him when, a while later, the Herald started singing, a pensive old tune Stefen was fairly sure he’d picked up before he’d gone north. The Herald’s baritone was more than just passable…

He laughed, bitter and weary in the comfortable darkness around them. “No wonder I didn’t impress you. All you have, and this too? ‘Dreams die hard,’ yeah?”

The Herald stopped, and Stefen regretted it. “That wasn’t a lie. The Bardic Gift came later. And I paid for it, more than I would have.”

“Huh,” he said noncommittal. Then, “Know this one?”

He’d figured he would, and he seemed to take it for the olive branch it was, singing again in his more-than-passable voice. He only faltered for a second when Stefen joined him, tenor and baritone layering pleasingly over the gittern.

Two songs later Stefen handed over the instrument. “Any good with her? Trade you?”

The Herald took it, but it was a moment before he caught on and got out his old lute for Stefen.

Stefen winced, running his hands over the beat-up old thing. If anything it was worse than his, a sorry state, that. For a second he thought how he could get him better. The pawn shop had one in the window, wasn’t too pricey, and—

He hit a hard, discordant note—easy, on that thing—pretending to adjust it and shaking himself loose. The Herald could probably buy out the pawn shop, building and all, and not think twice about it. He didn’t need Stefen’s little gestures, any more than he’d needed a few coppers for a handful of useless candles. The first one had already gone out, the one he’d lit for his beloved _Tylendel_.

 Focusing on the sad old lute, he tried out a quick run, readjusted, and went again. A few more times and he was ready to slip off onto a particularly maudlin love song—not one of his.

The Herald snorted, but joined him on the gittern. “A favorite of my mother’s,” he said, with some amusement.

Stefen smiled, as much at the skillful playing. “She has interesting taste.”

“That she does.”

Proving it though, as if he’d needed to, the Herald led the singing on that one, though Stefen was quick to join him. It was an awful song and it made him feel better to share the triteness of it. It was nice that the Herald couldn’t sing it with a straight face either and they were both laughing when it was done.

Stefen let his hands fall still and closed his eyes, to better enjoy the Herald’s serenade. He didn’t recognize the tune but it was lovely. If there were words, the Herald left them unsung.

Later, he suspected he’d be a bit pissed that the Herald hadn’t ever played for him, or at least sang, or at the very least let on that his ‘not liking music’ had been such a stupid, downright obscene lie. That voice was… well. It was a damned shame to have hidden it from him, that was all, he thought, as the Herald hummed wordlessly to his own song.

Stefen’d let his head fall back, and then turned it so he could watch him. Not only was he good, but the Herald _appreciated_ the music, Stefen could tell. He fell into it the same way Stefen did, with a far away look in his eyes and his face gone soft with thoughts of somewhere better.

His lips twisted again at the memory of the way the man had ignored all his efforts in the guard post the first time they’d met. And then claimed he didn’t like music at all. _Fucker_.

It was not the most opportune moment, with those particularly galling memories in mind, for the Herald to pause and meet his gaze. He smiled, ignorant of his companion’s dark thoughts. Stefen supposed at least it meant he wasn’t eavesdropping through that weird link they had now.

“Would you sing your song for me?” He offered the gittern back and Stefen only looked at it. _Now_ , he wanted him to sing for him. And _that_ song.

“D’rather not,” he said, but he traded the gittern back for the lute.

Undeterred, and far too pretty for all his gauntness and his patchy beard and his shadows, the Herald smiled a little…brighter. Stefen felt it, like a current through his body, that small, sweet smile. “Please?”

He felt like groaning, but it came out as little more than a breath. He wasn’t usually an easy mark, but of their own accord his fingers were already striking notes, chords, dancing away into melody. He cleared his throat and watched the candles, four still lit and burning down the hours since they’d returned. It was probably getting on to dawn, but the darkness wasn’t gone yet and he supposed, in their way, those candles played a part in his song too. Even Berte’s. Even Tylendel’s.

He watched them as he sang, the little swaying lights, little memories, little prayers offered in the darkness. He played and he sang and he put his grief into it, and his hopelessness.

But he hadn’t written it to be a hopeless song even if the characters in it were. The Herald was a hero, unafraid of the cost of his efforts, unafraid of death. And Dark _was_ defeated in the end. Lives were lost, destroyed, innocence burned to cinders at the frozen top of the world, but the hero won, and the kingdom was saved from that threat at least.

And the hero was now sitting beside him in a shack, in a slum, but alive. They both were, somehow, when everything in Stefen still felt like the song should have ended with everyone dead, a blood price for that sort of victory. But this wasn’t a song—and he finished his, voice and gittern going silent together.

His eyes stung and his heart hurt, but he wasn’t crying.

“You’re amazing,” the Herald said, hushed, sounding… yeah, fine, amazed.

Stefen didn’t want to hear it. He set his gittern down carefully and nudged it gently away from him before he reached for the Herald. Those silver eyes watched him, wide, surprised, but he didn’t pull away when Stefen cupped his face and held him for a kiss. Stefen breathed hard, struggling with it, but in spite of his fear the Herald didn’t pull away.

Not breaking the kiss, the soft, tentative press of his lips to the Herald’s, he managed to get up on his knees and moved his hands to the other man’s shoulders, lightly pressing him back and following him down when he allowed it, stretching out on the pallet, Stefen on top. It was only when he reached for the Herald’s belt that the man caught his hands and Stefen dropped his head from the kiss, sobbing, an animal sound of pain at the awaited rejection.

The Herald still didn’t shove him away though, instead wrapping his arms around him and pulling him closer, shifting a little so they were almost both on their sides, and he kept Stefen tucked against him like he was something precious.

Stefen held himself together, fighting all the broken pieces of his insides that were trembling with the need to come apart, until the Herald caught his head and tilted it up just enough to press his lips to Stefen’s forehead.

He didn’t cry prettily. There was nothing musical in his sobbing, or his moaning, or his hard, rasping breathing. At one point he tried to struggle free of the Herald’s arms but the man wouldn’t let him, holding on to him until he gave up and buried his face against his neck, soaking him with pointless tears.

There was a lassitude that settled over him when he’d cried himself out. Normally he’d have reached for the dreamerie and tried to lose himself after wringing out like that but he was too tired to move, and too warm, and too comfortable, pressed into the Herald’s body, arms around each other.

The room was still dark, but it stayed dark most of the day, firmly in the shadow of the big houses. He turned his head, trying to clear enough snot from his nose to catch a breath, without blowing it on the Herald’s clothes, and the last thing he saw before he fell asleep was the four candles, still burning on the crate.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More singing. Stef's still a little miffed at the whole "I'm not a fan of music" line.

The Bard fell asleep long before Van did and he was glad. It seemed the only peaceful moments he could hope for with the young man would be when he was asleep; he was so damned prickly he kept Van on tenterhooks every second otherwise, never knowing when he’d make a misstep and get his back up, or worse, send him running.

Asleep, he curled against him, trusting as a child, still snuffling a little after all that crying.

Vanyel ran his hands through the Bard’s hair, gently combing it out. It was much longer than when they’d parted, which wasn’t a bad look for him, though the weight pulled out some of the curl, but it was still as soft, still as sweetly scented when he nuzzled against him.

He exhaled deeply and looked at the candles. Tylendel’s had extinguished itself long before and stood tall and cool and dark—an omen if ever there was one, though he couldn’t say of what, exactly—the others were almost melted down. They weren’t made to burn long; letting go was the point.

 He wondered guiltily what he was supposed to do. He couldn’t stay. He honestly wasn’t well enough yet, for one thing, but even once he was, he had duties, responsibilities he’d taken on, time and again, when he’d chosen life over the easier road of following his first love.

And this? This wasn’t a place to stay, not for the Bard, any more than it was for him, but he had no doubt what the answer would be if he suggested the Bard come with him to Haven. He couldn’t blame him for not wanting to be owned again.

He shifted a little, shimmying his shoulders to fit against the wall more easily, and the Bard reflexively squeezed him, as though even in his sleep he was afraid Van was trying to leave. He squeezed back and kissed the young man’s temple, wishing Yfandes had been awake to talk to.

 That one dark candle beckoned for his attention though. He hadn’t had a dream about Tylendel since he and the Bard had brought down the mountains on the dark mage and his army. Or rather, since he’d woken up after fucking the Bard in the dark mage’s castle, and realized they were lifebonded, just _before_ they brought down the mountains.

_Gods, Lendel, what must you think of me now?_ he wondered, not for the first time.

And what would he think of the Bard?

But—

With his sense of justice, his sense of compassion—even for the standoffish little brat Vanyel had been when they’d met—he suspected he’d have liked him. Maybe not liked him enough to approve of _this_ , but he thought he’d have appreciated his strength, and the compassion the Bard showed, however unwillingly, however he’d deny he felt any such thing, for the people around him who weren’t really any worse off than he was.

He’d have appreciated the Bard’s hardness, his cleverness, his wit. He was quick, of mind and mouth. And his hands on even so poor as the instruments he had access to here—Van wished he could see him with the real thing. Any of the ones he had back in his room at the palace would have put that gittern, and Valdir’s tired lute, to shame.

Tylendel might not have had any particular love for music, aside from Van’s pre-Gift efforts, but he would have had to appreciate how good the Bard was with his hands.

Vanyel groaned, but it was more than half-laugh. He swore he could almost hear Lendel’s echoing amusement.

The Bard stirred in his arms and yawned. “You’re thinking too loud,” he grumbled.

“I’m sorry,” Vanyel said, before he could stop himself, but the Bard had already fallen back asleep, or perhaps hadn’t ever been fully awake.

Vanyel closed his eyes.

* * *

The Bard was already off him when he woke—though he had his wrist in an iron grip and hadn’t let him go far. He was a dangerous man to sleep so close with; he probably should have warned him, he thought, wincing as he released his arm.

The Bard didn’t say anything, or even look at him, just walking across the small shack and letting himself out for a moment, before returning, still not looking at him.

Van’s body ached as he sat himself up and ran his hands through his hair. The Bard had kept him warm enough at least but he’d pay for a night spent in such an uncomfortable bed when he was still wasn’t up to his fighting form.

Taking the hint, he excused himself from the shack for his morning ablutions, glad he was only limping a little bit of stiffness away yet as he came back in.

The Bard was packing up Valdir’s lute, and had already stowed his own gittern, when he returned. He handed his case back to him and shouldered his own.

He raised his chin stubbornly and Van cocked his head.

“Have breakfast with me.”

“I—”

“You’re leaving, yeah? You have to, I understand. I’m alive, you have a life—” He frowned. “—and need a damned sight more rest before you should be up and riding around, anyway. This isn’t your place. Have breakfast with me before you go.”

He hadn’t actually required any convincing. He nodded. “Gladly.”

The Bard blinked and then seemed to search his face in the light coming in from the open door before nodding back.

And then smiling and shaking his head. “And you left all your money with that snooty horse of yours, so I guess the meal’s on me.” His voice was rueful, but he didn’t seem upset, or Van would have pointed out that he’d fed himself often enough without his help.

* * *

The Bard spotted the children before Van did, and called them over with a wave and a grin, his door just closed behind them. Suddenly surrounded, to Van it seemed the whole mob of them, eight—no, nine— could have been siblings, for all the different colors of hair and eyes and skin. Seeing the Bard squatting to chatter quietly back and pass out coppers, subtle, palm-to-palm without ever seeing daylight, Van realized he was one of them too, a part of that kinship.

He felt a tugging at one of his legs and looked down to find Stenna there, dirty hand still fisted in his hose, but smiling shyly up at him. She bit her lip and gave a little wave and he smiled and lightly tousled her hair.

“See!” she said to a little girl next to her and suddenly none of the children were pressed as close to him—except Stenna.

Clearly she hadn’t been able to keep his secret, and clearly the news that he was a Herald made them as cautious as it had made her brother the day before. The king’s man, he’d called him, and even the children in this part of town knew to be wary around one of the king’s men, even if he was in with their good friend, ‘Stef.’

“What’s this?” the Bard asked, seeming genuinely confused, looking around the solemn faces that surrounded him.

They spoke too softly for Van to hear exactly what was said, but he did clearly make out the word _Herald_.

Stefen looked at him, for one moment entirely part of that crowd, considering, suspicious. Then he smiled and shook his head. “You’re worried about him?” he said, turning back to his little court. “Nah, he’s one of the good ones. You think I’d’ve had him in my place overnight, else?”

Stenna nodded at her friends and hugged his leg, though he suspected her faith had more to do with a budding romanticism and the Bard’s overly flattering song.

The rest of the children, including the girl’s brother, kept their distance, moving closer to the Bard for quick, hushed conversations in cant that was suddenly so thick it hardly sounded like the common tongue.

Stenna tugged at his leg again. “Thank you for the apple,” she said, and he understood her next tug to be a sign that she wanted him to come closer, so he crouched so she could lean in and press her lips against his ear. “And the pennies,” she added—and then she kissed his cheek and scampered away to join the rest of the children, turning a gloating look on one of the other little girls as she pushed at her shoulder.

And he—he just crouched there. He’d thought the Bard looked like a prince once, far away, surrounded by ice and snow. The prince of a singular kingdom: the brigand child he’d defended from Van’s unthinking rage, but _this_ was the young man’s kingdom here, these little ones who had nothing else and no one else to count on.

In Valdemar itself, with wild children who didn’t trust _Heralds_ , the sworn defenders of their kingdom, the Bard had a following of trust and support that should have made King Treven jealous. In a kingdom that had failed to protect him, he was doing his best to protect _them_ , and it was a burden that should never have fallen to him.

Van rubbed at his chest as he stood, waiting for the Bard to finish. He understood why the priestess had been so eager to speak to him about the children. He could be a pied piper—they trusted him, and they’d follow him if he said they should start taking lessons in the temple. They’d even trust a Herald, grudgingly, if he said it was okay.

* * *

_How could you have thought to leave them like that?_ he wanted to ask, when the Bard was finished and the little ones had scattered or been shooed away, but he knew better.

The Bard was more relaxed for that contact, if obviously also significantly poorer. There was a light to what Van could feel through their bond as he followed him through the streets, back across the river.

He balked when he finally realized where he was being led. It was called the Dawn’s Eyes Tavern, it was the best in town, and Herald-Mage Vanyel had eaten there on more than a few occasions as he’d passed along the main road.

“Wait!” he hissed, trying to catch the Bard before he could dart through the door.

He looked back and him and paused, raising a brow. “What? Afraid to be seen in public with me?”

“Afraid to be seen in public at all. I’ve been here before.”

The Bard shrugged. “Like that?” The nod of his chin encompassed the whole of Van’s disguise, as well as the raggedness that was currently no part of the disguise at all.

“No. That’s my point.”

The Bard rolled his eyes. “No one will recognize you, _m’lord_. Trust me. No one sees any more than they want to and why would anyone this side of the river want to see the great Herald-Mage in you? Just—” He grabbed the brim of Vanyel’s hat and tugged it down a bit. “—follow me.” With a gamine grin he disappeared into the tavern.

At least in the company of the Bard he might be less noticeable, he hoped, as he hurried after him.

* * *

Valdir was more than worse for wear. He could have slunk by closer to the river, but in a tavern situated on the high street, on the main road itself—no, this was no place for him, even trailing in his flashier companion’s wake.

He shuffled his feet even in his hurry and his fingers twisted nervously at the edges of his cloak, as though it could ever have hidden him. He almost ran into the Bard; his hat was so low and his gaze so down-cast he hadn’t noticed the other man had stopped.

“Brusi!”

“Stefen! My boy! And…you’ve brought a…friend…” The innkeeper, who’d several times greeted Vanyel at least as eagerly as he’d started to greet the Bard, trailed off as he caught sight of Valdir in his shadow. “Ah—and you are?” He held out a hand, a true publican, not quick to run off a customer, or at least the guest of one, though he didn’t see how the Bard could possibly have enough coin left after passing them out to the children.

“Va—Valdir, sir.” He pitched his voice a little higher and put a bit of quiver in it. He caught the Bard’s amused grin and he quickly and weakly clasped the tavernkeeper’s arm.

“A meal for a song,” the Bard said, getting straight to the point. He gestured at Valdir. “Two meals for a duet.”

“He’s a singer?” he sounded surprised, though Van wasn’t hiding his gittern case. “Is he as good as you?”

“Well, sir—”

The Bard scoffed noisily. “Not many are,” he said, nothing in his tone to say he was joking. “But he’s alright. To be truthful, I’d appreciate the opportunity to get him on stage with me. I promise, you’ve never met such a shy minstrel.” He grinned wider. “But he’s a bit light in the pocket today, and his stomach’s been howling at me for blocks, so I think he’ll be convinced, for some of your Arnie’s best.”

The tavernkeeper put his hands on his hips. “Well, Arnie’s _best_ is worth more than one song, I’m sure you’d agree.”

“That I would. My friend has to go I’m afraid, don’t think I can keep him for more than a song or two—but feed us both and you’ll have me for the day. The night too, for supper and a few coins after.”

 The tavernkeeper laughed and clapped the Bard’s shoulder. “And a bargain at that. You sell yourself too cheaply, my boy.” Van appreciated that the man seemed to mean it, and his affection for the Bard seemed genuine. Herald Vanyel wouldn’t feel it amiss to return when he was through this way again.

But first Minstrel Valdir had to get himself _out_.

* * *

They ate on the balcony that ringed the upper floor, and had it mostly to themselves at this time of day. Van had to admit, if only to himself, that he felt a little slighted. Herald Vanyel had never had reason to complain of the fare at the Dawn’s Eyes, but he’d clearly never been served Arnie’s _best_.

“Good, yeah?” the Bard asked, watching him with sparkling eyes as he finished his second pie.

He nodded around that last mouthful, thinking the king’s table should be so blessed, and chased it with a long swallow of good ale—at least they hadn’t been ‘cheating’ him on the ale.

“What’s this about a duet, though?” he asked quietly. The tavernkeeper had been hovering, first cheerfully bandying with the Bard and then cleaning up a spill that had been missed the night before, but he’d finally taken himself off to the first floor. 

“Sing for your supper. It’s what us poor, minstrel types do, isn’t it? I heard you last night, and the kids told me you’d set out that hat on a corner all yesterday, waiting for me.” He waved a hand. “You’ll do fine.”

Van sat back in his chair, contemplating the Bard’s—unreasonably handsome—face. It was very different from how he’d been the day before and he couldn’t be sorry for that. “Is this punishment? For telling you I didn’t like music?”

 The Bard’s lips twitched. “Think I’d be that petty?” He leaned forward a bit, an exaggerated crouch to get a better view under Van’s hat. “Well—you’re the mind-reader.”

* * *

And somehow, because of that cheeky, grinning Bard, Valdir soon found himself seated on a stage that Herald Vanyel had several times sat opposite, breaking all of his long-held rules for going undercover.

He gave the other man another annoyed look as he lowered himself onto the other stool that had been set up there for them, and the unrepentant grin that came in response was no more of a deterrent than any of the others had been. He’d do more than pretend to glower for the sake of a smile that joyful and genuine.

He felt Yfandes’ amusement and Sent her the mental equivalent of a rude gesture, but there wasn’t any heat behind it and she’d know that too.

There still weren’t too many patrons so early in the day but Van knew the tavernkeeper was more interested in hooking in the Bard for the long term than in what he and Valdir could do together, and he couldn’t blame him for that. Van knew, as the tavernkeeper couldn’t, that he was a good musician, and he was Gifted, suitable for the bardic collegium if he hadn’t also been a potential Herald-Mage, but Stefen was something else entirely. If Van hadn’t been in his persona he suspected he wouldn’t be so conflicted about this.

They took out their instruments and spent a moment tuning them, Van hiding behind his cloak and hat, the Bard with a bright, radiant grin and even his distinctive auburn hair pulled back in a hasty braid, a brilliant, stunning young man with nothing to hide.

This was the Bard’s show, so he let him choose the song, but he knew he was in for trouble when the young man tossed him another sly, side-eyed smile.

He should have expected it, Bards on the whole not being known for reticence or, well, _mercy_.

Still, it was a bitter challenge of a song the Bard started out with. It had come from the east by way of Hardorn, some even said by way of Iftel, so the fingering wasn’t even traditionally Valdemaran, and the pace would have driven Vanyel to madness trying to keep up—if he hadn’t spent a good month utterly devoted to working it out when he’d first heard it a few years before.

Valdir was sorry, scruffy, and scrawny, and down on his luck as all get out, but Vanyel knew how to make the tired old lute sing like the fine lady she’d once been. He cocked his head at the Bard, who shrugged, never dropping a note, and led off on the singing. That part had been added later, a more traditional Valdemaran arrangement, though inspired by the music it was laid over. Vanyel had learned it directly from the Bard who’d composed it, and joined on the chorus before taking over the second verse.

He’d only planned to stay for a song, maybe two.

They’d just finished the eighth when the tavernkeeper popped up, eyes aglow, two large tankards of ale held out.

“To wet your whistles, my lads,” he said, beaming. The tavern had filled up nicely since they’d started, though it was still fairly early in the day. A harried looking tavern girl was scurrying back and forth between the tables. Vanyel hadn’t even noticed any of that happening.

He drank the ale gratefully. He was breathless, exhilarated, the Bard was tireless, and he hadn’t realized how dry his throat had gotten until he had his first sip of the cooling ale.

He looked at the Bard, wishing again that he could—

The younger man shook his head, still smiling, and there wasn’t much darkness coming from his side of the lifebond. “I know,” he said. “But oi, c’mere a sec.”

Unthinking, Van slid off his stool and took a step towards the Bard, caught up in the magic of the music, voices and instruments and the appreciation of an audience he hadn’t been fully aware of. He should have expected it, he should have, when the Bard reached up and caught the back of his head, pulling him down for an already breathless kiss.

He tasted like ale, and smelled like cinnamon and green things, wild and young. Strands of his hair had pulled free from his braid and tickled Van’s face. Or maybe that was Van’s hair, falling forward as he leaned down to meet those soft, clever lips.

The Bard only held him there for a moment, and Van pulled away the instant he felt himself released, not playing at being flustered at so public a display.

The Bard laughed and a few in the audience echoed it, some perhaps not understanding how serious it had been. _Bards after all, everyone knew how Bards were._

And for a moment Van just stood, flummoxed, because it was the first time they’d kissed in broad daylight, in a well-lit space. The first time he’d pulled away and been able to clearly see that face, hazel eyes, glowing but slumberous, the dimple bracketing a generous mouth that was stretched in a wicked grin. He had freckles, not all over freckles, just a few, that you mostly didn’t notice until you were right next to him: on his jaw, by his mouth, on his cheek, by his left eye… Van wanted to stay and kiss each one—

He staggered back, before he could do anything more foolish than he already had. 

The Bard gestured broadly to him. “A round of applause for my friend! I’m afraid he has to leave us, but if you’ve a mind to continue indulging in _my_ poor playing I—” The words were drowned out by the cheering and Valdir glanced timidly, nervously, at their audience. Even as close as he was he couldn’t hear the Bard over them and he would have liked to, for as long as he could.

Instead he bobbed his head in parting, to them and to him, and grabbed his lute’s case and scampered off the stage.

At the far end of the room, by the door, not daring to look back towards the stage, though intensely aware of it, he set his case down and quickly tucked his lute away, so startled when the tavernkeeper spoke at his back that he yelped. The boy would be his death one way or another, if he let himself be so distracted.

“You’re sure you must—ah, sorry lad. Easy. But you’re sure you must be heading on? If it’s money…”

Valdir forced a laugh and swung his lute up across his back. “No, it’s not just—I have an… appointment? Business south, that is. I shouldn’t—no, I shouldn’t delay any longer.”

He could see from a quick, darting glance at the tavernkeeper’s knowing expression that he thought Valdir was on the run from something, rather than running towards. Since that was absolutely what he’d been trying to imply it was a relief.

“Aye, then. Godsspeed on your ‘business.’ For the road.”

He held out a wrapped parcel. Vanyel could smell the spices, meat, cheese, and bread, wafting from it. He looked between the tavernkeeper and his offering, confused. “Sir, you’ve already—it was a…very good meal, as you promised?” he stammered.

The tavernkeeper smiled kindly. “I’ll give your regards to Arnie, then. But you played considerable more than your song, and brought me a good bit of custom for it. Fair’s fair, lad. Go on.”

Valdir took the bundle and tucked it against his chest, gratefully. “Thank you, sir!”

The other man waved his words away. “Just remember me if you come back through, aye? My stage is always open for a talented player like yourself. When your business is over.”

“I will, sir! My vow, I will!” And he _would_ remember him, and he _would_ be back, even if he never played that stage again.

He couldn’t keep himself from one last look at it though. The Bard was still taking a break—well deserved, the way he’d played, _gods!_ He sat on his stool, one leg bent and caught on a lower rung of it, one stretched out in front of him on the floor, master of the world from up there. He took another sip from his tankard and laughed at something someone in the audience called up at him, tossing back an answer with a nod of his chin and a grin.

Van ducked out before he could be caught staring.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter. Van left. Stefen has to figure out how to go forward.

Stefen played most of the day and well into the night, with breaks for ale and food and chatter, and fine, so a bit of it was because he didn’t want to be alone, with a Herald-sized hole at his side. He rode the high of that music for a long time, the songs they’d sung together, and he was even finally feeling milder about the Herald’s early deception. The man was lucky the gods hadn’t struck him dead for a lie that horrendous, no matter how saintly a life he’d lived otherwise.

He shook his head, still smiling to himself as he sat at the bar, Brusi and his girls cleaning the place up behind him, savoring the last of the day’s warmth.

He put his cup down and pushed away, sliding off his stool.

Brusi came up and gave his shoulder a warm squeeze.

“You should come around more often, boy. Better atmosphere than a street corner, aye?”

Stefen laughed. “That—and much better food.”

The tavernkeeper chuckled. “That too. Arnie puts it on when he knows you’re about. Says you need fattening.”

Stefen patted his belly. “He succeeded today, I’d say.”

“Your friend from earlier—Arnie said the same of him. He poked his head out of the kitchen when you two were on.” His voice was subtly curious, as much as curiosity could be subtle.

Stefen just pursed his lips. “He’s right about that one,” he said, not giving more.

“Think he’ll be back through these parts?”

His mood fell a bit, but he didn’t show it. Probably he would. He said he’d been through before. Didn’t mean he’d stop and say ‘hey-o’ though, did it? He shrugged. “He’ll go where the music takes him, more’n like. Who knows.” Maybe he’d come back for more, more songs, another duet or so. No point mooning for what wasn’t even a day past. He could still hear his voice, his lute, ringing in his ears. It’d followed him all day; even for the songs he was already gone for, Stefen would swear he knew just how he’d’ve sounded.

“Think _you’ll_ be back, tomorrow maybe?”

Stefen thought about it, shrugged, but smiled a little, knowing it wasn’t so bright after the long day but the other man only smiled back, more understanding than he deserved. “In a few days, maybe. It’s nicer than a street corner, yeah, but—”

Brusi waved his hands. “I know, I know. Somedays walls may as well be iron bars. Trust me boy, we’ve been there.”

Him and his Arnie, he meant. Men who had come up hard, for all the softness of their lives now. Arnie was the quieter, and kept mostly to his kitchen, but he was the one who’d tried to talk it out to Stefen once, catching him on his corner. He was the one who’d invited him in the first time, offered a ragged street singer the stage and food and a bit of coin for singing in safety.

He nodded at him. “Tell him I said g’night.”

“Aye,” Brusi said, only sounding a little down over it.

* * *

He didn’t like the temples, though he’d been in a few times, even before a pious Herald had led him on that chase, hunting candles he didn’t have pay for and a peace that couldn’t be found in wax and wick.

Still, he debated, feeling a fool, the way it left him loitering at the front like a nervous penitent and damned if he was that. That thought made his mind for him.

The chapel was empty, same as the night before, except he hadn’t been alone then. The marble statue of the god and goddess seemed to eye him stern now, knowing just like he did, how he didn’t belong. He raised his chin and held their painted eyes a moment, waiting for them—or anyone—to make trouble.

Then he exhaled and shook his head. Sometimes his imagination was too primed. Too many songs of gods and heroes and he _thought_ he knew better than to believe but—

Well, hadn’t one of those heroes walked right outta one of those songs, and if he could who knew what else would follow?

He cast a more cautious eye on the statues as he got closer to the front of the church, but they were made to watch those that came at them straight on, and Stefen was slipping up the side of the building, near the wall and the door that was his goal.

She was in there again, though this time, knowing where she’d be, he’d sneaked up on her rather than the other way.

The priestess hummed—off key, not much ear, for her enthusiasm—while she sorted dried flowers into her baskets. He watched her a moment, waiting for her to look up and catch him at it, but she was too set on her work.

When he cleared his throat she jumped, but he caught the flash of a knife under the table before she realized who was there and tucked it away again, laughing and smiling that sunshine-bright smile. She still looked nervous, but not the sort of nervous that required that hidden blade. Interesting though.

“You came back…” she said softly, putting her hands on the table, a meaningful gesture that he wasn’t sure he could trust.

For a moment longer he just stared, knowing his face was hard, watching the light of that smile fade a little and wondering what sort of darkness was behind it. He’d learned young, there was always some, no matter how bright the light seemed.

“If I bring ‘em, what’re you proposing to do for ‘em?” he asked.


End file.
